


Brighton Rock

by mydogwatson



Series: PostcardTales III [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluffy, Kidlock, M/M, Teenlock, Too Much Sugar, different first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 15:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10880130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: Could it even be called a friendship?  John wasn't sure. And then it is so much more.





	Brighton Rock

**Author's Note:**

> I must apologise for the long gap between postings. The day after I returned from 221B Con [A great time!] my 9-year-old computer reached its end. The day after that Watson had a flare-up of his pancreatitis. And so things just slowed down. I have mostly mastered the new Mac. It must be said that this is not the Postcard Tale I was supposed to be posting, but that one just kept growing and getting more involved and now it is hitting 7000 words and not done yet. So I decided to let this one jump the queue. It is criminally fluffy. Be warned.

After listening to his parents snap at one another for twenty minutes over the exact placement of the tattered beach blanket and who exactly had forgotten to pack the salt vinegar crisps, John decided to take a walk. He knew from past holidays that everything would only get worse once the lager started to flow.

The Watson family had been coming to Brighton for the same week every summer for the past five years. Half of John’s life, in fact, and it was always the same. Tensions that were mostly [although far from always] kept on a slow simmer back in North London seemed to combust noisily under the [sometimes] sunny skies of the south coast. He did occasionally wonder if some families actually had fun on their holidays.

And it was going to be worse this year, since he was on his own. Permission had been granted for his sister to go to Edinburgh with a school friend’s family. He didn’t miss her, because they didn’t get on, but it was easier to have someone else around to share the burden of belonging to the Watson family.

As he walked away from his still-bickering parents, John decided to look for some more pretty stones to add to his collection. Harry always made fun of his ‘box of rocks’ but John enjoyed collecting and then polishing them in the small tumbler Grandpop had given him. When things were especially horrid at home, he could take his pillow and blanket into the old wardrobe and curl up there to run his fingers over the smooth surfaces. It was nice.

He headed for the pier, knowing that under the old wooden structure was a good place to search for treasures. It was quiet and cool under the pier and he hummed softly to himself as he kicked at the damp sand.

He had just spotted a smallish red stone that would polish up nicely when an unexpected sound reached his ears. It took him only a moment of listening to recognise the noise for what it was. John followed the soft whimpers until he rounded a pillar and saw a little boy huddled in the shadows.

John moved closer and knelt down in front of the crying child. “What’s the matter?” he asked in his kindest voice. “Are you hurt?”

“Go ‘way,” the boy said.

John thought that he looked about six, with a mess of dark curls and skin that glowed palely even in the shadows. Two skinny arms encircled two knobby knees that were pressed to his chest. 

Of course, John did not go away. Instead, he reached into the back pocket of his khaki shorts and pulled out a clean cotton handkerchief. Granny had taught him that a gentleman always carried a proper handkerchief and he took her words to heart. Another thing that Harry mocked him for. John held it out and after a brief hesitation the little boy took it. He rubbed it across his eyes and nose, then held it wadded in his hand.

Remembering how Granny had comforted him once after a bee sting, John patted the boy’s knee. “There, isn’t that better?”

The boy nodded.

“My name is John. Can you tell me yours?”

“Sherlock.”

“What happened to make you sad?’

“Some big boys took my candy stick. It was peppermint.”

“Well, that was very mean of them.” John knew that he had some of his holiday money in his pocket. “But we can go buy you another candy stick.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t have any more money.”

“I do. Come on.” John held out one hand and after a moment Sherlock took it. Hand in hand, they made their way back up to the beach and then to the boardwalk, where a jolly fat man in a brightly painted kiosk was selling Brighton rock sticks. John bought two and they found an empty bench to perch on. 

Sherlock seemed much happier now. He narrowed his gaze and looked at John. “I intend to be a pirate, you know.”

John was enjoying his own spearmint stick. “That sounds interesting. No one will steal your candy stick then.”

Sherlock glowered. “If they do, I will make them walk the plank.”

“You’ll be the captain, I guess.”

Now the look was scathing. “Of course. After all, everyone else is an idiot, my brother says.”

John raised a brow at him.

Sherlock blinked. “Well, not you.”

“Thanks for that.”

“You could be my first mate,” Sherlock offered. 

“Maybe. I might be a soldier.”

They both turned around when someone nearby yelled. “Sherlock!” A tall thin teenager with ginger hair was stalking towards them. 

“My brother,” Sherlock said glumly. He seemed to recall a bit of politeness that someone had once taught him. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Sherlock nodded just as his brother grabbed him by the arm and began to drag him away.

John stayed on the bench, sucking on the candy stick as he stared out over the water and thought about being a pirate. 

*

John had definitely not wanted to come back to Brighton, but his mother wept copiously and said that she needed a holiday, but did not want to go on her own. It was his opinion that she enjoyed playing the role of grieving widow much more than she ever had that of dutiful wife. Even though he did try to be a good son [and not only to show up Harry, who was a crap daughter] that might not have been enough to lure him to the seaside one last time.

But he very much wanted the opportunity to see Sherlock Holmes once more.

Ever since that first meeting under the pier eight years ago they had seen one another in Brighton each summer. They spent what time together they could and it was always the best part of John’s holiday. But John was only a couple of months from going off to his military training and then medical school, so there would be no more holidays in Brighton for him.

Sometimes he mused on the oddness of his relationship with Sherlock. If it could be called a relationship at all. A few days once a year spent sitting on the beach, eating too much rock candy and talking about nothing of any significance; was that even a friendship? They both lived in London [although Barking and Mayfair might as well be on different planets] but they never saw one another there. John always sent a Xmas card and usually Sherlock sent him a birthday card. It was always something wildly inappropriate, as if he had simply grabbed the first one proclaiming Happy Birthday that caught his eye. Last year’s card had featured far too many kittens in party dresses and, as usual, was signed only with a scrawled SH. 

John had saved every card. 

But that was it. Seasonal greetings and a few days in Brighton every year. Harry mocked it as being like a bad romantic comedy. As if she had room to talk.

But John always ignored that and so here he was again, sitting on the familiar bench, contemplating life. Suddenly a stick of Brighton Rock was being dangled in front of his face. John tilted his head backwards and backwards some more until he could finally see Sherlock’s face. “Cripes, you’ve had a growth spurt.

Sherlock came around and dropped onto the beside him. “You didn’t, apparently.”

John glared at him, but took the candy. “I’m eighteen. Think that ship has sailed.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, letting the warm familiarity settle around them like a blanket once again. “I’m set for Eton,” Sherlock said finally.

“Oh, that’s good.” John knew how clever the other boy was.

Sherlock made a face of displeasure. “I’m sure the place is full of idiots.” He took a lick of the candy and eyed John. “You’re really signing up?”

John had long ago accepted the uncanny ability Sherlock had to read people. “Yes, I leave for training in September.”

“I don’t approve of this, you know,” Sherlock said curtly. “You could be shot or something.”

“Well, if I want to become a doctor I have no choice.”

“Nevertheless,” Sherlock said, pouting. 

John thought that, except for his height, Sherlock had changed very little since their first meeting. He was still gangly and pale and the dark curls were as untamed as ever. John had long ago decided that it was quite all right to admire his friend’s looks, because, well, he was really rather lovely in an almost alien sort of way. Or in a very Public School sort of way.

“Well, I forbid you to go off and be foolishly brave,” Sherlock said sternly. “I only have one friend and it would be very upsetting to see your picture in the Times with some ridiculous headline like Brave Young Soldier Dies a Hero.”

“I’ll do my best,” John promised. It had to be a joke, surely, that he was Sherlock’s only friend.

They spent most of the day on that bench, in idle conversation, just as if this were probably not the last time they would see one another. Finally, when John realised that his mother would be looking for him to have dinner and being very aware of the danger risked by leaving her alone in a place that served alcohol, he stood. “See you tomorrow,” he said as usual.

But Sherlock shook his head. “My family is not actually here,” he said. “We’re leaving for France tomorrow. I took the train down from London for the day.”

“Just to see me?” John was surprised.

Sherlock only shrugged. They stood there awkwardly for a moment, until John stepped forward and threw his arms around Sherlock, who hesitantly returned the gesture. “Go off and be brilliant at Eton,” John said.

“You be careful. Please.” The last word was a whisper. Then Sherlock turned away and his long legs carried him quickly across the sand.

John watched him go.

*

Xmas in a war zone never got any easier, no matter how many times it happened. John always volunteered to stay so that someone with a family could take leave. As a consequence, after so many years, sitting in a mess far from London having a Xmas lunch provided by Her Majesty’s army was quite familiar to him.

What was somewhat less familiar was actually receiving a parcel when the mail was passed out. “Father Christmas came for you, Doc,” the smiling young woman said. She was a short perky blond named Mary, who seemed to smile at him a lot. So much, in fact, that a fellow surgeon had given him a suggestive wink a few days earlier, saying that John was definitely in with a chance there. But John only very rarely took such opportunities when they arose. Oddly, he sometimes felt as if the reluctance could be down to the fact that he was waiting for…something. What that something might be, he had no idea.

John assumed that the just-delivered package was one of those charity boxes that sweet old ladies liked to send off to the troops for the holiday. Until, that was, he looked at the scribbled writing across the front of the parcel. It had been years, but John could still recognise that script and know immediately who had written it. What he didn’t know was how Sherlock had known where he was, since their last contact had been that hug on the beach so long ago. 

He slowly finished his serving of Xmas pudding before opening the package. On top, lay a ghastly greeting card with a badly painted manger scene in which the Virgin looked very much like a character from Home and Away; the card was signed, of course, with nothing more than a sloppy SH. And under that he found at least two dozen sticks of Brighton Rock.

John laughed aloud and then handed out sticks to everyone else at the table.

It wasn’t until much later, after he was in bed, that he took the time to look at the return address on the package, which was Hopewell Clinic, Northumberland. John frowned and reached for his phone, hoping the sometimes-wobbly signal was good on this particular night. Amazingly, it was [a Xmas miracle perhaps] and it took him only a few moments to discover that the Hopewell was a drug rehab facility. 

John put his phone away. He unwrapped one of the candy sticks and lay down to stare at the roof of the hut, remembering sunny days and a little boy who wanted to be a pirate. It was a long time before he fell asleep, with the peppermint stick still in his mouth. 

*

Waking up was like trying to swim through treacle and for a very long time John did not have either the energy or the will to bother. But at last he became angry with himself for slacking; he pushed through the thickness and the pain to finally open his eyes.

“I told you not to be an idiot and get yourself shot.”

The deep voice came from very nearby. 

John shifted his head on the pillow and blinked at the man sitting in the bedside chair. Lanky and pale and with too-long dark curls. He blinked again. “Sherlock?” John said in a voice that sound as if it were being dragged across sandpaper.

“Who else in the world would be sitting at your bedside?” Sherlock asked. He picked up a paper cup filled with ice chips and pulled one out. With two slender fingers, he rubbed the chip against John’s dry lips and then slipped it into his mouth.

Fuzzily, John realised the truth of what Sherlock had said. They had not seen one another in well over a decade and yet he could not think of a single soul who would care enough to be with him now. Except, apparently, Sherlock Holmes. For some reason, that knowledge made tears prickle in John’s eyes. Not because there was no one else to care, but because this man did. 

Sherlock gave him another ice chip. 

“Thank you,” John said. There were a lot questions that he wanted to ask, but he was so tired. He’d forgotten that Sherlock never really needed to you to ask. 

“Oh, it was Mycroft, of course. He has been keeping a careful eye on you and he knew as soon as you were airlifted out.”

Why would Sherlock’s annoying brother be keeping an eye on him?

Sherlock sighed and scooted the chair closer to the bed. One fingertip rubbed a soft circle on the back of John’s hand. “I do occasional favours for him and he did that for me. It was an arrangement that suited us both.”

Before any more could be said, a nurse bustled into the room, chattering about how it was about time he’d woken up and didn’t he know how worried his friend had been?

Sherlock huffed and moved out of the way as the nurse ran various checks and kept up her inane conversation, promising that the doctor would be along shortly. John scarcely listened, instead keeping his eyes on Sherlock. It occurred to him that the image he’d kept of Sherlock in his mind was that of the fourteen-year-old boy he’d seen that last day on the beach.

That boy was the one he’d imagined in his fretting over the return address of a drug rehab clinic on the Xmas package. But now he was faced with this man and John was at a loss as to what would happen next. 

Sherlock complained, but finally left the room when the doctor arrived, promising to bring John some tea when he returned.

The cup of tea was lukewarm by the time John got it in his hand, but he drank it anyway. The doctor had explained, with no embellishment and in strict medical language, what had happened to John’s body and what he would be able to do [and not do] in the future. 

That future seemed grim. 

Sherlock was back in the chair, his face thoughtful. “I have my eye on a lovely flat in Baker Street,” he said. “Together we ought to be able to afford it.”

John was still coming to terms with the fact that his career in the Army and possibly even as a doctor was over and Sherlock Holmes was talking about…a flat? John closed his eyes again. Which did not deter Sherlock from talking, apparently.

“I expect it will be very useful having a medical man working with me,” he said cheerfully. “Especially as the idiots at the Yard refuse to do so.”

And the next thing John knew, the conversation had moved on and was now apparently about a recent murder that Sherlock was convinced he had solved, but sadly the idiot detective inspector refused to listen to him.

John fell asleep before he understood any of what was going on.

*

The room was dark when he woke up, save for one small light in the corner.

John shifted slightly and realised that he was not alone. At some point, a camp bed had been delivered and now Sherlock’s ridiculously long limbs were sprawled over the edge of the mattress. He was snoring softly.

John just watched him for several moments, still wondering what was going on, but realising now that it didn’t matter. Sherlock seemed to have it all in hand and for the near future John could accept that. He had a vague memory of soft lips pressed into his forehead as he’d drifted off and that seemed like a sort of promise of what was to come. John was fine with that and thought that he had been for a very long time. This, perhaps, was what he had been waiting for all this time.

It was another minute before he realised that there was something in his hand.

And, of course, it was a stick of Brighton Rock.

John Watson couldn’t help chuckling softly.

“Hush,” came Sherlock’s sleepy voice. “You can’t giggle; we’re in a hospital room.”

The sound of soft laugher rippled through the room until sleep overtook both of them again.  
-Fini-

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: Brighton Rock by Graham Greene


End file.
